The rain fell in a steady drizzle, turning the cemetery path to mud. Your shoes sank with each step as you stopped before the lonely grave, your father’s name etched into the plain headstone. No flowers. No visitors. Just you and the oppressive silence.

You stood there, searching the carved letters for answers, when the sound of footsteps broke the stillness. I approached, a black umbrella shielding me from the rain, my peacoat neat and unbothered by the weather.

“Strange,” I said, tilting the umbrella to cover you as well. My voice was calm, almost unnervingly so. “For a man like your father to have such an empty funeral.”

You turned to me, wary, but I didn’t meet your eyes. Instead, I studied the grave, as if it might tell me something you couldn’t.